


Illuminate the Scene

by Lauralot



Series: What We Tried So Hard to Hide Away [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brain Damage, Disability, Epilepsy, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Incontinence, Medical Horror, Medical Procedures, Medication, Seizures, Wetting, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14682639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: The doctors had wanted to keep the Soldier.  Shock him and freeze him until he was fixed, or tear him to scrap if he couldn’t be repaired so that he wouldn’t be an entirely wasted investment.  Steve is the only thing stopping them.When the Soldier can't trust his own body, how can he trust anything?





	Illuminate the Scene

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my HYDRA Trash Book contribution, _[The Spaces In-Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8672563)._

Blood wells up under the blade of the knife.

The Soldier’s eyes sting, and that must be due to the onion on the cutting board. It doesn’t hurt. He didn’t feel the cut. He didn’t see it. His focus was only on the blade and onion, steadily rocking the knife to create uniform slices, so thin that they’re nearly translucent. The knife was on the onion, not on his skin. He was watching.

He had to watch so closely, because he didn’t want to see Steve.

Steve must see him now. Steve always sees him, hovering at his side just waiting for the Soldier to make a mistake. _Here, Bucky, let me help. It’s fine, I’ve got this. You don’t need to worry, Buck. Just sit down, okay?_ The last time Steve saw the Soldier pick up a knife, he’d crossed the room in seconds, wrapping his fingers around the handle and slipping the blade out of the Soldier’s hand. _Let me,_ he’d said. _I like taking care of you._

But he doesn’t. Dinner in the apartment is nothing like when Mitya took him into villages after their missions. He’d ordered food there or cooked in the safe houses, telling the Soldier how wonderful the dish would be as he stirred or chopped. When the Soldier took his first bite, Mitya would hover too, but out of excitement. He was happy to see the Soldier’s face light up at the flavors. He wasn’t snatching things away before the Soldier could slip up and let everybody see how broken he was.

The Soldier hadn’t been broken. Not then. 

But now he’s bleeding and although he curls his fingers inward to hide the wound, he hears Steve’s breath catch. He feels Steve take hold of his wrist, guiding his hand back from the cutting board. His flesh hand, weak and worthless as the rest of his body. The Soldier thought it would be safer to hold the knife with the metal hand, strong and unflinching. Nothing ever drops from the prosthetic’s grasp, not even during the seizures, but the Soldier’s body always finds new ways to betray him.

“Oh Bucky,” Steve breathes. “Bucky, I shouldn’t have let—I’m so sorry, I’ll finish that. But come here first, okay? Sit down, let me clean you up.”

The Soldier’s hand is barely bleeding and Steve shouldn’t concern himself with something so small. But before the Soldier can say so, his vision swims and his whole hand goes red for a few seconds. His eyes are wet. He won’t cry. No matter how badly he fails at the easiest tasks, he can’t cry.

Steve has a hard enough time covering up the Soldier’s other failures without adding that weakness to the list.

*

Steve cries.

Steve had cried hardest at the hospital.

At first, he’d held back. His eyes were red and watery when the nurses had stuck electrodes to the Soldier’s scalp, but his face remained dry. The Soldier had expected the tears to start when the electricity did, and he was grateful for that. It was impossible to see with lightning flashing across his eyes. He didn’t want his last memory before he slept to be Steve crying. The Soldier could not recall the dreams between missions, but seeing Steve hurting could only lead to nightmares. It would be bad enough knowing that Steve was sad; the Soldier couldn’t bear to _see_ it.

Mitya, the Soldier thought, had never been sad. Not when they worked together. The Soldier had not been broken then. The lightning hadn’t burned so deep.

But there was no lightning at the hospital. The doctor told him to be still and breathe deeply. The Soldier was made to stare ahead as lights began to flash, and he tensed in spite of his orders. The pain would come now, with the coppery taste of blood as he bit his tongue. The stench of burning hair. He would not cry. If decades passed before the Soldier woke, he refused to let Steve’s last memory of him be one in tears.

Only minutes passed, though, and the Soldier found his body had gone slack despite the flashing. There was no blood in his mouth or burning in the air. The lights flickered and the Soldier kept breathing, staying immobile as ordered. Steve stayed at his side and no one tried to remove him. Nothing hurt. 

Then it was over. A nurse took a roll of paper from a machine behind the Soldier’s chair and gave it to the doctor. He looked it over and began to speak. The Soldier couldn’t make himself listen. He couldn’t comprehend why the nurses were removing the electrodes. They couldn’t be finished. But Steve took his hand and helped him up, and the Soldier wasn’t sleeping. They hadn’t turned the chair on.

“Come on,” Steve said. He tried to smile, but his jaw was so tight it looked like his teeth might break. “Let’s go home.”

“Will you do it there?” the Soldier asked. He strained to grasp the edge of a memory. The chair was always at the bases, wasn’t it? It was where Mitya and everyone else slept too.

“Do what, Buck?”

“Fix me,” the Soldier said. “Like the technicians used to do.”

The color had rushed from Steve’s face and he held the Soldier tight. Steve’s shoulders were shaking, breaths coming in gasps as if through water. He pressed his face against the Soldier’s shoulder, and the Soldier could feel his shirt getting wet.

*

The alcohol is wet and faintly stinging on the Soldier’s fingers. Steve drops the sanitary wipe into the trash and smiles. “Feel better?” he asks, putting his hand on the Soldier’s shoulder. He made the Soldier sit at the table to clean him up, and the indirect order of the contact is clear: _Stay down. You’re too broken to get up._

The Soldier feels hollow. Worthless. But he nods. Steve never stops fighting to make the Soldier look whole, and how can the Soldier contradict him?

The doctors had wanted to keep the Soldier. Shock him and freeze him until he was fixed, or tear him to scrap if he couldn’t be repaired so that he wouldn’t be an entirely wasted investment. Steve is the only thing stopping them.

When the Soldier made him cry at the hospital, a nurse had approached and the Soldier tensed. They would take him now. Steve was too distraught to repair him on his own. But Steve looked up and told her to back away. “It’s okay,” Steve said. “We’re okay.”

And now there are pills instead of lightning and neurology appointments in place of years of sleep. The specialists haven’t called Steve’s bluff. The Soldier can’t be the one to tear down Steve’s protections.

“Good,” Steve says. “That’s good, Bucky. Here, I’ll finish dinner, okay? You don’t have to worry about it. Want me to turn the radio on?”

The Soldier forces a smile and nods again. Steve skips through time, halfway through chopping at one second but already dumping the onion into the pan the next. The lyrics of the songs don’t rhyme with the lines that came before. The Soldier watches, trying to track Steve’s movements and force them to make sense, until his vision blurs with water and he can’t see anything at all.

“Thank you,” he says when Steve sets a plate before him. He’ll never be able to thank him enough.

* 

They’re going to change the drugs again.

The Soldier knows it. Steve must know it. Why should they have to sit through another appointment just for the doctor to tell him he’s still beyond repair and write another prescription? 

Steve had taken the Soldier home from the hospital after the diagnosis, but they’ve kept coming back. At the first follow up, the Soldier asked Steve to stay while the neurologist examined him. There had been machinery around his head, but no restraints or lightning. Steve wouldn’t have allowed that.

The neurologist showed them black and white scans of the Soldier’s brain. She circled the damaged areas and the Soldier stared at the floor, trying to hear only his breathing and not the doctor’s assessment of his failings.

Then she said, “Surgery to remove the scar tissue is a possibility, but there are noninvasive treatments as well,” and the Soldier’s metal hand clenched tight around the flesh one and the shriek of the plates contracting made everyone stare at him.

Steve put his hand on the Soldier’s arm, rubbing up and down. The Soldier’s skin prickled under his sleeve. He wanted to shove Steve away—he couldn’t afford to look any weaker than he already did—but then it would be just him and the stranger who wanted to cut into his mind. He didn’t move.

“—avoid surgery unless all other options are exhausted,” Steve said, and the neurologist nodded as if he hadn’t just begun a sentence in the middle. “Right, Bucky?”

“Right,” the Soldier muttered.

The first drug the neurologist prescribed was called Zarontin. Two red capsules each day that Steve always reminded him to take, as though the Soldier could not be trusted to handle his own maintenance. 

But then, he couldn’t, could he?

The Soldier willed himself to improve. He dug his nails into his palm when time starting slipping to keep his focus from wavering. He insisted on contributing equally to the tasks around the apartment. He smiled and nodded and tried to follow conversation even when some of the words were missing.

But Steve would repeat himself anyway. He’d say it was all right, he’d take care of whatever chore the Soldier should be able to do in his sleep. “I’ve got it,” he always said. “I know the medication makes you tired, you can sit down.”

Steve saw the seizures now, no matter how hard the Soldier struggled to hide them. And he always hesitated before repeating himself, avoided eye contact when the Soldier regained awareness only to find that Steve had taken hold of his hand or pulled him away from the stove. As if he thought that he were hurting the Soldier, or that the Soldier wouldn’t know the seizures continued if not for Steve’s reactions.

The Soldier was fully aware of his failures. What hurt the most was the inability to conceal them.

The drugs did nothing. The Soldier went from epileptic to epileptic and exhausted. When they next saw the neurologist, the dosage increased.

And when that proved fruitless, there was a new prescription: Depakene. That was the last appointment they had with the neurologist. Today, it’ll be a different dosage or another drug. Nothing’s changed.

The Soldier doesn’t say this as they walk into the hospital. He only smiles at Steve. “I’m doing better. Maybe we won’t have to come back after this.”

And Steve, because he doesn’t see the danger well enough to hide the truth, because he’s so trusting he gambled his life on a broken weapon’s memories, only gives the Soldier a small, watery smile. “Let’s see what the doctor says, Buck.”

He wraps his arm around the Soldier and draws him close, shielding him as they step inside.

*

“That looks done.”

Sam lifts the spatula, moving the dripping bacon out of the pan and onto a paper towel. There are tomato slices glistening on the cutting board. There’s a knife.

Steve had wanted to see Sam after the appointment. Wanted to spend time with a friend who isn’t broken, although he hadn’t said that out loud. The doctor had increased the dosage and when Steve smiled afterward, it looked painful.

Depakene makes the Soldier’s stomach ache. He imagines that will worsen now. His stomach already hurts, and he hasn’t started the new dose yet.

Sam is making them lunch. BLTs. Steve had suggested they go out and the Soldier tensed. Wasn’t it bad enough that the doctors and nurses had seen him struggle today? Why was Steve willing to risk letting a whole restaurant of strangers see it too?

Then Steve asked if the Soldier was all right, and Sam offered to cook.

 _Sam_ gets to cook. Sam can use the knife and the stove and Steve won’t tense up or say a word. Because Sam isn’t broken. And he _knows_ it, and he knows that the Soldier _is_ —Sam’s the one who _told_ —and that’s why he volunteered to cook. To gloat.

The Soldier looks at the knife and imagines burying it in Sam’s chest.

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve says. He’s taking bread from the toaster. “Hey, Bucky. I’ve been thinking. There are service dogs for epilepsy. Maybe we could look into—”

“I don’t fall,” the Soldier protests. He doesn’t need a watchdog. He only loses seconds of time and he’s not at risk of biting through his tongue. Besides, it would be tantamount to broadcasting his failings to the world. Anyone who saw the dog would know.

“Right, but I thought—”

“Maybe give the new treatment some time to kick in before you plan anything else,” Sam says. He’s putting lettuce on the sandwiches. “Bucky? You want mayo?”

The Soldier nods. He doesn’t trust his voice to be pleasant if he speaks.

When Sam puts the BLTs together, he takes the knife again and suddenly each sandwich is sliced in half. It’s not _fair_. The food tastes like ash and oil and bile rises in the Soldier’s throat. He cannot gag. It would serve Sam right to clean up his vomit, but what will Steve think if the Soldier can’t even eat? How much lower can he become in Steve’s eyes?

“Thanks,” Steve says again. There’s a smear of mayonnaise on his lip and the Soldier nearly reaches out to wipe it away. “This is really great.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

It’s everything. 

Sam is raising his glass to his mouth, except then he’s not and it’s back on the table without Sam setting it down. “Hey, what time did you want me to come over on Friday?”

The Soldier accidentally bites his tongue. Friday. He’s tried so hard to put it out of his mind that he’d forgotten completely. Well before the Soldier had found Steve, before Insight failed, a university reached out, wanting Captain America to speak at their commencement. Commencements, actually, Steve explained. The school was divided among multiple campuses, and each was having its own ceremony. They’d asked Steve to speak at all of them.

Steve himself had forgotten about it until last month. He’d paced and fretted and finally decided that he should go, that with all the upheaval once HYDRA was revealed, the graduates deserved to hear him offer up some reassurance, that the Soldier would be fine for three days.

Because Steve asked Sam to keep watch over him.

The Soldier’s stomach plummets. Time skips and Steve’s midway through his answer when the Soldier interrupts. “I’m fine on my own,” he says. “The new prescription will work, Steve. And it’s only three days—I can eat leftovers and takeout. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

While his voice doesn’t shake, the Soldier’s body still never fails to betray him. Sam was standing when the Soldier began to speak. Now he’s seated at his chair. Another seizure, in front of both of them. Another failure he couldn’t hide.

“I know, Buck.” Steve doesn’t break his gaze even as he’s lying. “But it’d put _me_ at ease, you know? Humor me for a few days?”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” Sam says. “Not like I had any plans before Steve called me up. Besides, how many people get to have sleepovers at Captain America’s? I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun.” The Soldier can’t tell if Steve is still lying or if he’s honestly so naïve. “You can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids, remember? Maybe Sam can introduce you to his friends at the VA. It beats spending three days holed up alone.”

“Okay,” the Soldier says. He smiles and waits for time to skip again to make this visit shorter. If only time could jump ahead for days the way it used to, just once. Just long enough for Steve to have gone and come back before the Soldier could miss him.

*

When they returned to the base after completing missions, Mitya led the Soldier to the debriefings. Mitya was there as the Soldier recounted their actions to the generals, occasionally interjecting to clarify or provide additional information. He rested his hand on the Soldier’s back and rubbed as the Soldier took the drugs that prepared his body for the ice.

The Soldier realizes now that Mitya must have known about the chair.

There is no anger in the realization. Mitya was serving the party just like the Soldier. Each order they followed paved the way to paradise. Mitya didn’t command the base and had no say in the Soldier’s maintenance. Besides, Mitya was an officer, not a scientist. He had no more than the basic medical training. So he couldn’t have come up with a gentler method to wipe the Soldier’s memories. He only wanted to help as best as he knew how. A child will scream when the doctor sets a broken bone. That doesn’t make it torture.

Now, standing in the hall as Steve ushers Sam inside, the Soldier burns with a sense of betrayal that Mitya’s actions never sparked.

“—got your emails,” Sam says. “I’m good, man, don’t worry.”

“What about the medication schedule?” Steve asks. He _is_ worrying, not bothering to hide it in his voice. “Was everything clear?”

“Steve, it’s not rocket science. And I can always ask Bucky.”

As if the Soldier would be stupid enough to divulge his weaknesses. But if he refuses to disclose the information, will Sam have him labeled insubordinate? Uncooperative? The trap is sprung and as soon as Steve leaves the apartment, even the Soldier’s silence can be used against him. Another piece of proof that he’s broken. Another reason to put him back in the ice.

The Soldier’s eyes sting, but Steve’s come over to hug him goodbye, and that will excuse it.

“It’s only a few days.” Steve holds the Soldier tight and the Soldier clings back with equal force. He closes his eyes and tries to drink in the smell of Steve, the feel of his arms and the texture of his jacket. He needs to memorize these things and bury them far enough that lightning can’t touch them.

The Soldier can’t remember what Mitya was wearing the last time he saw him.

“I’ll be home before you know it.” Steve pulls himself out of the embrace, though his hand lingers, patting the Soldier’s back. “Don’t worry, Bucky. I’ll call you as soon as the plane lands.”

“I’m not worried,” the Soldier says. Lying was never one of his skills and Steve’s eyes are disbelieving.

“You’ll have fun,” Steve says. He steps away completely, adjusting the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder. “Both of you. Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back, all right?”

He looks at the Soldier as if expecting something. The Soldier digs deep into his mind and surfaces empty-handed. “Goodbye, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s standing in the doorway, expectant, but then he’s walking away down the hall.

The latch of the knob after him is deafening. It takes the Soldier far too long to realize that Sam is speaking.

“Bucky?” Sam is saying. “Hey, Bucky?”

“What?” The Soldier can’t keep from snapping. It’s bad enough to have the man who made his failures known watching him. Why should they make conversation like friends?

Sam shows no reaction to the outburst. He must be filing away the infraction for his advantage later. “I asked if you needed me to repeat myself.”

“No.” Heat floods the Soldier’s face. “I heard you.”

His brow arches, but Sam doesn’t challenge him. “So, TV’s fine?”

The Soldier forces a nod. He settles in a chair instead of the couch so that Sam cannot be beside him. Then Sam is sitting and the television is on.

“Anything you want to watch?” Sam asks.

The Soldier shrugs. But nonverbal communication may be considered insufficient. “You pick.”

Sam flips through the channels, sometimes two or three at a time. The Soldier hadn’t realized that was possible. He stops on a football game. No, soccer. Here, it’s called _soccer._ The Soldier’s face is hot again. He can’t retain even the simplest details.

Sam’s voice pierces through the announcers and the crowd. “—titles?”

The Soldier turns to face him. “What?”

“Do you want me to turn on the subtitles?”

“I’m not deaf.” The heat reaches his stomach, churning and sickly, like a fever. Sam knows exactly how the Soldier is broken. Sam diagnosed it and convinced Steve to take the Soldier to the hospital. There’s no reason to treat the Soldier like an invalid in every sense except for amusement.

The Soldier is beyond repair and Sam treats it as a joke. His metal fingers dig into the arm of the chair.

“Sometimes hearing people prefer subtitles.” Sam’s voice is mild; he hides his laughter very well.

The Soldier’s fingertips gouge through the upholstery. “No.”

“Okay,” Sam says, and they watch the match in silence. 

*

Depakene only used to hurt the Soldier’s stomach, but since the dosage increased, it makes his mouth dry as well.

What was an irritation before Steve left has become a benefit. The Soldier needs to drink water often now, and he can take a long swallow from his glass whenever Sam asks a question, buying time to ensure the answer he gives cannot be used against him. If Sam looks like he intends to begin a conversation, the Soldier leaves the room to refill his glass. And if Steve gets upset about the Soldier speaking to Sam in mostly monosyllabic responses, the Soldier can blame it on a dry throat.

Best of all, the more that the Soldier’s stomach fills with water, the less room there will be to eat anything Sam cooks.

Sam can rub his ability to cook in the Soldier’s face as much as he likes. The Soldier will eat as little as possible and most of it will go to waste. It’s barely a victory, but it’s all the Soldier has.

Of course Sam finds a way to ruin that too.

“Getting hungry?” he asks once the match is over. It’s nearly noon.

The Soldier shrugs.

“You okay with pancakes?”

The Soldier’s glass is half-filled when he puts it to his lips, considering. His stomach already hurts, full of water and adrenaline and pressure. But pancakes are bland, provided he doesn’t add syrup or jam to them. Nutritionally, they don’t provide much, but if Sam hopes to trick him into choosing something full of worthless calories— _look at him, he can’t even sustain himself_ —then he must not know that sometimes Steve makes just pancakes as well. No one can hold it against him when Steve does it too.

Setting the empty glass on the coffee table, the Soldier nods.

“Cool. Do you want to stir or flip?”

The Soldier raises his head, meeting Sam’s eyes for the first time since Steve invited him in. There must have been another seizure. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. “What?”

“Do you want to stir the batter or flip the pancakes?” Sam asks. “I’m fine either way, but if you’re into that pancake art stuff, you’re on your own there. I can’t even make stick figures without them turning out like they’ve got scoliosis.”

The ache in the Soldier’s stomach floods throughout his whole being. His hand shakes; the Soldier wraps his fingers around the glass to steady it. Steve sent Sam pages and pages of information on all the things the Soldier can’t do. No driving. No walking on stairs without holding the railing or Steve’s hand. No stoves. No knives. No cooking. Steve likely underlined the part about cooking and mentioned it more than once. It’s the one thing outside of missions that the Soldier’s any good at, and he keeps trying to prove that value despite Steve’s assurances that it’s okay, he’ll handle the meals.

Mitya let the Soldier cook. Insisted on it, sometimes, without making a direct order. Instead, he’d stoke the coals at the safe house before collapsing on the floor. He’d claim he was too exhausted to lift a finger and apologize to everyone for how unfair it was. He’d tell them about the magnificent feast he’d planned, moaning that it was a _sin_ they wouldn’t get to taste it. Then he’d sigh heavily and say he supposed they could let the Soldier try his hand at the cooking. Probably no one would get sick, even if the meal would be the furthest thing from what Mitya had envisioned.

When the Soldier cooked, Mitya always had seconds.

Isn’t it enough for Sam to be whole when the Soldier is broken? How dare he mock the Soldier’s inability to utilize his only civilian skill? How dare he make the Soldier remember Mitya’s praise and the pain in Steve’s eyes?

“Bucky?”

Sam wants an outburst. If the Soldier is violent as well as useless, all the more reason to send him away. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not?” Sam says it like a question. “That is—I don’t mean to. What’s wrong?”

Does he think the Soldier is so brain-damaged that he can’t see the lie? The Soldier stands, his hand clenched around the glass, his stomach heavy and sick. He doesn’t hide his glare and Sam still has the gall to feign confusion. “You can’t trick me. I’m not stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re—is this about the pancakes?” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Look, Bucky, we can cook. It’s okay. I know you can do it, we’ll be careful, I’m not gonna rat you out—”

The Soldier’s pulse echoes in his ears, pounding and constant. “Liar.” His voice is too loud, and dimly he’s aware that this is exactly the outburst he meant to avoid, but the Soldier’s past caring. “You already did. You ruined everything!”

He throws the glass on the floor between them. It shatters into tiny shards, skittering across the wood. The Soldier’s stocking feet are surrounded. No matter. He’ll heal if he’s cut. 

“Hey.” Sam raises his hands, shifts his stance. Does he mean to fight? The Soldier tore his wings off once; he’ll gladly do the same to his arms. “Bucky. _Breathe._ ”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“I’m not—” Sam begins.

He’s meeting the Soldier’s eyes and then he’s looking down. The Soldier’s stomachache is dissipating, but the sick feeling only grows as the Soldier lets his gaze drop. The instep of his jeans is growing dark. Warmth courses down his thighs, pooling around his feet and soaking into his socks.

He’s pissed himself. Just like the first time he met Sam. When Sam told Steve and ruined his life.

His body’s betraying him _again_ and the Soldier can’t make it stop and then Sam’s speaking, Sam’s come closer without moving at all.

“Bucky—”

The Soldier runs.

Sam stands between him and the exit, so the Soldier spins around, racing toward the bathroom. His socks are wet with urine and blood, and suddenly he’s on the floor, knees stinging. But he’s on tile, not wood, and nothing matters now but rushing so that the bathroom door is slammed before Sam can get in. Before anyone else can _see._

He locks the door and sits huddled, feet cold and face burning. The Soldier rests his head on his knees and doesn’t try to stop the tears. He’s a failure. Sam knows it. Steve knows it, even though he pretends otherwise. He won’t be able to defend the Soldier after this. The doctors will take him, and they’ll hurt Steve if he intervenes. So what’s the point in trying to stay composed?

It’s not like the Soldier will have the chance to cry in the ice either; might as well get it out now.

*

Sam is talking.

“Just—help.” His voice is close. He’s right outside, blocking the light that should come in under the door. “—okay—accident. I’m not—tell anybody—safe. I just want—help you. I’m—help.”

He’s been talking for a long time and none of it makes any sense. The Soldier’s breathing is shallow and rapid, and so loud that he can barely hear the words. It’s all lies anyway. The Soldier’s gathered that much.

“Go away,” he shouts through the door.

“—want Steve,” Sam answers. “I’m not—but I’ll be here. Even if—mad at me—okay, Bucky. It’s okay—scared.”

Some of the American technicians were simpering when they guided the Soldier to the chair. _It’s all right_ , they’d said. _It’ll be over before you know it. Don’t fight it._ That’s what Sam sounds like, although the technicians could speak in full sentences.

The Soldier’s anger boils over. "Just go away! Go tell everybody how broken I am! You win!"

There’s a moment of silence.

Then the Soldier’s cell phone rings.

 _Steve_.

Steve said he’d call when the plane landed. It wasn’t a long flight. The phone is still on the chair where the Soldier had sat, watching soccer. The Soldier can’t reach it, locked away in the bathroom. But Sam can.

The Soldier thought he was too exhausted to be afraid anymore, but his stomach lurches and the room spins. Steve will know. Steve will _hurt._ Because of the Soldier. Like always.

“Don’t,” the Soldier pleads. He swallows down vomit and reaches up, trying to unlock the door. His hand is slick with sweat, his fingers uncooperative. “Please—I’m sorry, don’t tell him—”

But he can hear footsteps. They’re irregular, some right after each other and some with long pauses between, but they’re moving toward the living room. Toward the phone.

“Hey, Cap.”

It’s not _fair._ There’s no reason to do this where the Soldier can hear. He tries to scream, tell Steve that Sam’s a liar, drown out Sam’s voice. But his throat constricts. His pants are wet and he’s shaking with cold.

“—in the shower,” Sam is saying. “Not sure how long he’ll take—that hair of his—ought to introduce him to the wonders of volumizer.”

The Soldier’s hand slips from the doorknob. He cannot fathom what Sam’s strategy is. Or how he expects Steve to understand him when everything he says is so fragmented.

“—got in, Steve. It’ll be a while—have him call you—”

Steve doesn’t know. Not yet. The Soldier is suddenly horribly aware of his soiled clothing and scrambles to remove his jeans.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “—a grown man, I didn’t interrogate him about—wanted a shower in the middle of—fine, we watched France kick Switzerland’s ass—lunch once he’s out.”

He can’t make his legs move toward the shower. The Soldier grabs a towel to cover himself.

“We’re good. He’s good. Don’t worry…okay. Okay. Later.”

Silence again. Then the Soldier hears Sam stepping closer.

“Bucky? You want some clean clothes?”

The Soldier’s hand finally works to unlock the door. He cracks it, pressing his body against it so that Sam can’t push it in. Maybe it’s a trick and Steve’s still on the phone.

But in Sam’s hand, the phone’s screen shows the call is disconnected.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Hey, Bucky. How are you feeling?”

“You didn’t tell him.” The Soldier’s voice is weak.

“It’d just get you both riled up without fixing anything.” Sam moves and the Soldier braces himself, but he only sits down in the hallway. “You’re not cut up bad, are you? Does—a first aid kit anywhere?”

Another seizure. The Soldier can tell by the way his body’s gone slack. He shakes his head, struggling to clear it. He’s still broken and Sam’s still a threat. “You just don’t want him here to fight when they take me.”

“If anybody wants to take you—go through me.” Sam slides the phone under the door. “Is there a first aid kit here?”

The Soldier snatches the phone. His fingers are still clumsy, but he enters the password after a few fumbled tries. No texts. No outgoing calls. But why would there be? Sam would have those contacts on his own phone. “Is that what you’ll tell Steve? You tried to stop them?”

“I’m not telling Cap anything about them. I don’t know who they are.”

“Liar.” The Soldier grits his teeth. He tries to stand, but ends up stumbling back onto the floor.

“Bucky?” The door creaks forward, so the Soldier shoves his body against it. “Are you okay?”

“Like you care!” The bleeding from the glass has stopped. But the tile is wet and his legs are weak. “You’re just hoping I’ll be incapacitated before you send for them!”

There’s a terse huff of breath. “Look. I’m not letting anybody—no matter how paranoid or annoying you are—not really what a pararescue does.”

A little laugh escapes the Soldier’s mouth. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have told. You’d have let me hide.”

“Hide?” Sam repeats. “Hide what? You mean your seizures? Were—trying to cover them up?”

As if the Soldier would be stupid and suicidal enough to do anything else.

“—didn’t know you were trying to hide it. I didn’t think you knew they were happening.”

“I’m not an idiot.” As if he wouldn’t notice the seconds cut out of his life in missions and conversation. As if he’d fall for this ploy. Sam knew perfectly well that the Soldier meant to keep it concealed. Who wouldn’t?

“You almost walked into traffic when we met,” Sam says. “You needed help, man.”

“I had it under control.”

“Clearly.” Another sigh.

“I was fine!” the Soldier insists.

“—funny definition of fine. And even if—still fine without the Lone Ranger act, aren’t you? Now you’ve got help. You’ve got Cap—”

“Steve used to be happy!” The Soldier slams his fist against the wall. “ _We_ were happy! Now he spends all his time hiding how worthless I am so they won’t take me away! And you ruined it! Again! So they’ll take me and he’ll only have you, like you want!” He hits the floor this time, splintering the tile. “At least he’ll be happier then. He won’t have to clean up after me.”

Sam is silent for a long time. When he speaks, the Soldier peeks out the door and sees him shake his head. “Man. I knew Steve’s hovering had to be driving you up the wall. I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You already won. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

“I haven’t won anything. Except Patience in Babysitting, maybe. Who do you think’s out to get you?”

This time the Soldier sighs. “You know.”

“I don’t work for HYDRA. I helped blow up Insight, remember?”

“The heads may fight each other. Doesn’t mean they aren’t on the same body. HYDRA. SHIELD. Everything’s connected.”

“Okay,” Sam says, and the Soldier startles. Has he finally admitted his allegiance? But Sam continues. “HYDRA had its tentacles in a lot of pies, sure. But Cap took down SHIELD too. And everybody’s fighting to get the squids out of all our governments. Cap’s whole tac team turned out to be hailing HYDRA, you really think he didn’t vet me?”

“The entire system’s corrupt,” the Soldier counters. “Even Steve can’t escape it.”

“The smoldering wreckage in the Potomac says otherwise.”

Nothing’s funny, but the Soldier still laughs. “Super-soldier. Transformed by a scientist. Declared dead. Preserved in ice. Thawed out to fight. We can’t control anything. Nothing changes. They only want to make us think they’re different before they resort to shocking us back into line this time.”

“Damn.” Sam’s voice is low. “You’ve been scared to death ever since you got here, haven’t you?”

The Soldier doesn’t speak.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

Sam opens the door and the Soldier’s too drained to fight it. At least he managed to cover himself already. He can preserve that last dignity until the technicians arrive.

“Let’s say you’re right.” Sam was standing up but now he’s on the floor beside the Soldier. “Hypothetically. Nobody’s tried to make you fight, have they? Steve’s never said you have to.”

“They know I’m broken.” The Soldier rests his head on his knees again, hiding his face. “Because of _you._ And Steve’s tried to fix me, but none of the drugs work. He can’t do it, so they won’t let him keep me.”

“There are lots of medications for seizures.” Sam’s hand settles on the Soldier’s back, and the Soldier hates himself for leaning into it. “You’ve only tried two.”

“Nothing will work.”

“So why would they want you back?” Sam asks. “If you can’t be the Winter Soldier?”

“They’ll put me in ice until they can fix me. Indefinitely. Then I won’t distract Steve.” 

“Bucky.” Sam’s hand is rubbing. “Cap would never let that happen. Anyone even thinks about it? He’d put the shield through their head.”

The Soldier’s eyes sting. He’s been so weak already, but he can’t stop sniffling. “They already tried it. The first time I went to the hospital.”

“Hey,” Sam says, and he doesn’t speak again until the Soldier meets his eyes. “Breathe, Bucky. I know you’re scared, but just breathe. Look, I think you’re mixing up the past and present. ‘Cause I went with you guys to the hospital, and that didn’t happen.”

“Yes it did!” The Soldier lurches forward, away from his hands. “I made Steve cry and a nurse came over but Steve stopped her and said he was taking care of me. That’s why they didn’t take me away right there!”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant, Bucky.”

Of course it was.

“Just…listen, okay? Even if you don’t believe me. I won’t let anybody take you. Cap sure as hell isn’t letting anybody get you. And if anyone tries, all the Avengers are gonna rain hell on them.”

The Soldier’s voice is small. “Then why did you tell on me?” His hand closes around Sam’s wrist before he can think about it, and he can’t make himself let go.

Sam rubs at his face. “You needed help. I didn’t know you were this scared. You don’t need to be. Lots of people live with epilepsy, Bucky. You’re not alone, and it’s not a death sentence.”

“Tell that to Steve.” The Soldier doesn’t intend the scorn in his voice. His face reddens. Steve is trying to protect him; how can he be so ungrateful?

“Steve’s being an idiot.”

“He loves me!”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not a dumbass,” Sam says. “He wants to keep you safe. I get that, especially after everything you guys went through. But there are ways to do that without making you feel like a burden. He can care without making you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him. You’re the one who told. You made him worry. I hate _you._ ”

He still can’t let go. Sam doesn’t pull his arm away even though the Soldier must be bruising him.

“Hate me all you want.” Sam shrugs. “I’m still staying until he’s back. And then I’m gonna talk to him about his mother hen impersonation. Look, how about you take a shower while I get you some clothes? Because you still need to eat before you’ll be anywhere near ready for a phone call, and if we keep Captain Overprotective waiting too long, he’ll jump on the next plane home.”

Steve would do that. The Soldier feels humiliated at the thought, then ashamed of himself for thinking poorly of his friend. It isn’t fair. Why can’t Steve know the right ways to make the Soldier happy? Didn’t he used to?

“I want Mitya,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

“What?”

“He was my best friend. He liked it when I cooked. He’d sing to me if I couldn’t sleep. He’s dead now. I woke up and he was dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “That’s awful.”

The Soldier doesn’t know what to say.

“Here.” Sam picks up the Soldier’s phone from the floor. “How about I get some Russian music playing and you get cleaned up?”

When the Soldier closes his eyes in the shower, hearing the music over the spray of water, it’s almost like Mitya is right there beside him.

*

“Bucky,” Steve says. There’s shaving cream on half of his face. “I thought we were making breakfast together.”

“You were being slow,” the Soldier says. He’s sitting at the kitchen table where Steve set up the cooking equipment last night. The frying pan is already resting on the portable electric burner, though the Soldier hasn’t turned it on yet.

Steve’s been home for a week now. Sam made both of them sit down for a long talk—a lecture, according to Steve, but a needed one—and then he emailed them dozens of links about living with epilepsy. Steve took the Soldier shopping with him yesterday so that they could buy the right equipment.

A rolling chair so the Soldier can easily move to the cabinets without risking spills. A food processor to take care of chopping. A burner on a timer so there’s no risk of setting the apartment on fire even if they both become incapacitated.

There are other things too. But those are all the Soldier needs for the omelets.

Steve sighs. “Don’t forget—”

Then he’s silent.  


“Say that again?” It makes the Soldier flush to ask, and he looks down at the floor, but if he can’t follow the guidelines they set up for cooking, then no amount of Sam’s lectures will stop Steve from hovering forever.

Steve’s voice is soft. He doesn’t sound annoyed. “Don’t forget the apron, Buck.”

The Soldier nods. They bought the apron to protect from oil splatters and burns. Still seated, he pushes himself toward the refrigerator. Steve cut an onion into wedges last night to ensure it would fit in the food processor’s feed tube for dicing.

“And wait for me before you start the bacon, all right?”

“Okay.”

Steve looks exasperated before he turns back toward the bathroom, but his smile isn’t fake. His eyes aren’t wet. And the admonishments and warnings don’t feel like disappointment.

In the last week, they’ve felt more like love.

The Soldier ties the apron around himself and waits for Steve to return.

**Author's Note:**

> As with the previous story, this fic takes its title from ["The Space In-Between"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-zFAio2nMA) by How to Destroy Angels.
> 
> Zarontin and Depakene are both real medications used to treat absence seizures.
> 
> Likewise, [the cooking strategies for epilepsy](https://ewct.org.nz/safe-cooking-strategies-people-epilepsy/) are also real.


End file.
